The Unwritten History
by mamazano
Summary: A continuing story of our immortal Captains, Jack Sparrow and Will Turner. Jack takes temporary employment at the British Museum of Natural History.
1. Chapter 1 Truth Be Told

Written by: mamazano  
Title: Truth Be Told  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner (J/W)  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, we just like playing with them.

Part 1:

"Great."

Jack looked up to find Will frowning at a letter he'd just opened. "What?" he asked, placing a finger in his book to mark his place.

"Remember that woman we met at the museum's open house last week? The one with the polka dot dress?"

"The one with that dreadful voice?" Jack placed a hand on his breast and imitated in a falsetto, _"Oh Mister Sparrow, I am afraid you are most mistaken! The East India Trading Company was a legitimate company, run by honest, stalwart, respectable gentlemen, all thoroughly loyal to the Crown. Your facts are wrong, I tell you, wrong, wrong, wrong!"_

"Yes, that one." Will folded up the letter and tossed it to Jack. "Apparently she has taken offense at your remarks."

Jack scanned the paper, a twitch of the mustache belaying his stern voice as he replied, "Not sure what her problem is, I only told her the honest truth."

"The EITC was a bunch of thieving, murdering scallywags, worse than any respectable pirate who sailed those waters." Will quoted. "I imagine your reference to her great-great-great grandnephew, Cutler Beckett, as 'a twisted, impotent eunuch, who made up for his lack of balls and inability to fire his own cannon with his fleet of ships' did not endear you to her, either."

"They always say that honesty is the best policy," Jack groused.

Will shook his head, smiling at the recollection of the irate woman. "Unfortunately, not when the recipient is a museum patron whose endowment enabled you to be employed in the first place." Will chuckled. "I imagine she was expecting an edifice of grandeur for her illustrious ancestor, not a recounting of his atrocities."

"See, Will, that is why studying history is so important," Jack said. "To remember the truth, not cover it up in a cloud of lies, just to make some self delusional fool feel good about themselves."

"True." Will slipped an arm around Jack and pulled him close. "I will tell the director tomorrow you stand by your research. After all," he kissed Jack's cheek lightly, "I would not want you to change the truth for any amount of endowment. Museums are to preserve the truth, not alter it."

"I suppose he wants to fire me," Jack mumbled, burying his nose in Will's hair and breathing deeply. "No matter, would rather stay home with you. I can help you in the shop."

Will shook his head, and murmured back, "No, the museum needs you. Who else can give them first hand knowledge of the Age of Sail?"

"You just don't want me handling your tools," Jack teased.

"Jack, you can gladly handle my tools any time you wish."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."


	2. Chapter 2 Word Spar

Part 2:

The snow continued to fall, blocking all the roads, and closing the local businesses. Jack had managed to trudge though the icy terrain to the local corner grocer, procuring enough supplies to last the week, if necessary. This is how the two men found themselves in front of a blazing fire on a Tuesday morning, drinking hot cocoa and playing a friendly game of Scrabble.

Well, it started out friendly. Until Will challenged Jack's choice of words one too many times.

Will had begun the game with a perfectly good word. WALK.

Jack smiled and laid his tiles down. JACK.

"You can't use a proper noun," Will had pointed out.

"There's nothing proper about that t'all," Jack had argued. "In fact, if you ask me, it is much more improper than proper." He said, sitting back with a smug smile. "Oh, and I get double word for that."

"Fine," Will said tersely, adjusting the score. He studied his tiles and quickly put down WILL. "There."

Jack's mustache twitched. He spelled out LUST.

Will countered. WAIT.

Jack sniffed. CANT.

"You can't use contractions," Will sighed.

"Are you challenging me again?"

Will didn't answer, just put down, LATER.

RUM.

SAVE.

READY.

SHAME.

Jack flashed Will a pointed look and spelled, SEX.

TOOL. Will added, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Jack smiled. BEST.

THROB. Will adjusted himself in his chair.

Jack nodded. HARD.

WANT. Will smiled.

AYE.

There was no more need for words, proper or otherwise. Unless it was the word, SATED.


	3. Chapter 3 Twitterpated

Part 3:

Will was busy at his desk with the new designs for the Barrymore account, a new and very important client, whose satisfaction could lead to more lucrative jobs in the future. This particular piece was an elaborate reproduction of an 18th century iron gate, complete with half-pin barrel hinges. The intricate design for the scroll work had Will working later than usual, as he was determined to have a final drawing for his early morning meeting the next day.

"Tweet da la tweet de tweet!"

Will scowled at his cell phone as it jingled for the fifth time in as many minutes. He knew he should just ignore it, or put it on silent mode, but he was expecting a call back from the museum regarding an exhibit scheduled for the following month.

"Tweet da la tweet de tweet!"

Throwing down his pencil, Will picked up the phone and read, "I'm starving."

Sighing, Will typed a quick message back. "Eat something."

"Tweet da la tweet de tweet!"

"And the cupboard is bare."

"Go to the store if you're hungry."

"I am lost without my Boswell."

Will bit his lip. The idea had seemed so simple at first. Unlimited text messaging, the ability to contact one another when necessary without having to call. Except Jack seemed to think of texting as a way to alleviate boredom.

"I'll be home in an hour. You won't starve."

"I'm withering away…"

Will decided the best thing to do was ignore him. After all, Jack was a grown man, there was really no danger of him actually starving to death. Besides, he really needed to get these drawings done.

"Tweet da la tweet de tweet!"

"AUGH!!!!" Will picked up the phone and called Jack. Drumming his fingers, he waited, one ring…two rings…three rings… "Oi! You've reached the voicemail of the Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. I'm obviously not available. So leave a message. Savvy?"

Now where did he go? Will frowned at the phone and practically shouted at the beep. "Jack! I can't work with constant interruption. Don't text again unless it is a life threatening situation. And, seeing as you can't die, that means, stop. Period."

Ah, silence. Will worked uninterrupted for 15 minutes before he began to feel the first twinge of guilt. After 25 minutes of silence, he began to wonder whether he had been too impatient with Jack. After 45 minutes of no contact Will threw his pencil down in disgust. How could he concentrate?

Will picked up the phone and texted a message. "How about I pick up Chinese take-out on my way home?"

Silence.

He sent another message. "Jack, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so sharp. I'll make it up to you. Anything you want. Promise."

Silence.

"Jack! Say something!"

"Tweet da la tweet de tweet!"

_"Anything?"_

Will whistled as he drove through the early evening traffic. He had managed to finish the drawings, as well as set up an appointment for the following week with the museum. He had a paper bag full of cartons of take-out, along with a chilled bottle of wine to wash it down with. And best of all, he had a hungry, horny immortal pirate waiting for him at home.


	4. Chapter 4 The Unwritten History

Part 4:

The long awaited and elaborate new exhibit on the Age of Sail at the Museum of History was a stunning masterpiece of a success. This amazing accomplishment was not due to the meticulous details in the period perfect displays, as much as it was to the newest addition to the museum's staff; the illustrious former sea captain and part time tour guide, one Captain Jack Sparrow.

Filling in at the last moment for one of their regular guides, who was out on an earlier than expected maternity leave, her eccentric replacement came highly recommended, despite his apparent lack of credentials of any kind. He quickly became a favorite among school children and senior citizens alike, and the demand for one of Captain Sparrow's personalized guided tours soon surpassed all expectations. And, as with all popular figures, the content of these tours was not without controversy.

The most common complaint lodged against the colorful commentary offered up by the good captain was his liberal references to "rum", which not only caused some disconcertion amongst the parents of the impressionable children sent to the museum for their edification, but also to the historians on the museum's staff, who claimed the exhibit was not meant to be the "History of Rum during the Age of Sail", but more a comprehensive look back at the sovereignty of Her Majesty's Royal Navy on the High Seas.

"Bollocks," had been Captain Sparrow's reply to these complaints.

Unwilling to squelch the profitable and, indisputably highly popular tours, the Board of Directors, after meeting and discussing the complaints against Captain Sparrow, decided they would send some of their members on a clandestine tour of the exhibit, disguising themselves as chaperones on one of the many school tours scheduled for the following day.

So that was how it came about that Mr. Bailey and Mrs. Dunderhall joined a group of eight-year-old boys from the local parish school, along with Father McGillicutty and Sister Mary Agnes, on a tour of the newest exhibit in the museum.

"Ahoy there, mateys!" Captain Sparrow hailed the group, as they gathered around him in the entrance hall to the exhibit. "Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service." He bowed, as the boys applauded and cheered, having already been informed of his "expertise" by their classmates at St. Jude the Obscure Primary School.

"He certainly looks the part," Mrs. Dunderhall whispered behind a raised hand.

"I've been told he insisted on wearing his own clothes," Mr. Bailey whispered back. "He must have scoured all the thrift shops in the district for that getup."

They of course were referring to Jack's attire, and what a proper sea captain he did look, with his long frock coat, colorful sash and tricorn hat. He even wore the obligatory bucket boots made famous by all the illustrators of children's books, along with a baldric and cutlass.

"He looks like he's stepped straight out of _Treasure Island_," Mrs. Dunderhall whispered.

"Are you a pirate?" one freckled-faced boy asked, tugging on Jack's sleeve.

"He likes to think himself the most fearsome pirate on the Spanish Main," said an amused voice from behind the group.

They turned to find a museum employee standing there, one of the reenactment specialists, carrying a large toolbox and wearing a big grin on his face.

"Ah! My dear colleague!" Jack grinned back, eyes fixed on the intruder while whispering loudly behind his hand at the boys. "Pay him no mind, boys. He's not what you'd call the sharpest item in that box."

The man just smirked, and moving on with his load, hollered over his shoulder, "Better a dull tool than a wobbly-legged, rum-soaked pirate."

"Oi! I resemble that remark!" Jack shouted cheerfully at the receding back, over the laughter of the schoolboys. Straightening his cuffs and huffing slightly, Jack turned back to the group and said innocently, "Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

"The boys were asking if you are a real pirate," Sister Agnes said with a giggle.

Another wide-eyed lad pointed at the cutlass and asked, "Is it real?"

"Of course it's real," Jack said, tempering his belligerence with a smile for the good Sister. "Contrary to what a certain Commodore said, a proper pirate's sword is in fact _not_ made of wood."

The boys all oohed and ahhed as Jack turned and winked at Sister Agnes, who blushed and busied herself with her guidebook.

"Now boys," Father McGillicutty said in a loud voice, "We must get moving, we don't want to miss any of the tour."

The boys were herded into the semblance of a line and made their way through the turnstile and on into the exhibit hall. The first stop on the tour was a replica of a 17th Century sailing ship, and several figures dressed in period clothing.

"From the earliest days of sail, men needed liquid during voyages," Jack began, pulling out a set of note cards. "Now, the most readily available liquids were water, of course. And beer. Which were taken on board and stored in casks, and replaced at the end of the voyage or at ports of call." He paused, clearing his throat. "Now the problem was, the water quickly developed algae and turned slimy, and beer turned sour, neither of which was conducive to the sailors wanting to consume either. Correct?"

The boys all nodded.

"Would you," Jack bent and read the nametag on the boy's jacket, "Tommy. Would you want to drink green, slimy water?" The boy made a face as the others went '_ewww_', and laughed. "Or you, Winston." Jack frowned and read the tag again. "What sort of a mum names her kid Winston?" As the boy reddened, Jack smiled and snapped his fingers upon realization. "Ah, named you after the Prime Minister, she did. Good job." He patted the boy on the back and asked in a friendly fashion, "So tell me, Winston, would you serve your crew sour beer?"

"No, sir," the boy said firmly.

"Didn't think so," Jack said, smugly. "So, the custom was to drink up all the beer before it could sour. Which was fine and dandy unless you were on a long voyage. Then you were stuck, once again, drinking all that slimy water." He pointed at a statue of an able seaman. "The original ration of beer for seamen was a gallon a day, which, when you think of it, is a considerable amount to store over a long voyage. And, as the British Empire grew and longer voyages became more common, the problem of spoilage and shortages increased. As I am sure you bright lads can figure out for yourself."

"Come along!" Jack waved a hand and moved quickly along the hall, the cluster of boys jostling to be closer to their guide, who had stopped at another display. "Now, the origin of grog lies with this man here, Vice-Admiral William Penn, whose son went on to found the cleverly coined colony of Pennsylvania. But that comes later. This is in 1655, during Penn's campaign for Cromwell in the West Indies, where he arrived in Barbados and captured Jamaica."

Jack stopped short and glanced irritably down at the cards in his hand, shuffling through them while muttering, "What kind of a bloody idiot wrote these?" Turning towards his audience, Jack flapped the cards in front of their noses, "I trust everyone here bloody knows Jamaica is _not_ in Barbados, contrary to these note cards I'm supposed to read from."

Jack studied the note card for a moment more, evidently not quite believing his eyes, then cheerfully tossed it over his shoulder.

"There, much more better. So, where were we? Oh, yes! I was explaining how Vice-Admiral Penn came to be known as the founding father of grog. So, going all the way back to 1655, Penn claimed Jamaica for the Crown, only to find it had very few stores of beer or wine. Jamaica did, however, have _rum_. Lots of rum. Penn, who found himself with a mutinous crew and no beer, therefore began the use of rum as a ration. You all with me so far?"

That these last words being rather slurred, plus the fact that Captain Sparrow was swaying quite alarmingly, led Mrs. Dunderhall to lean over and ask in a concerned whisper to Mr. Bailey, if he thought the good Captain might have had some of his own rum ration before starting the tour.

"Poppycock! At Nine-O'clock in the morning?" Mr. Bailey hissed back, before shushing her so that he could hear the rest of the lecture.

Jack, meanwhile was gesturing rather drunkenly at the next exhibit, which depicted a battle between a pirate ship and a Navy frigate. "You see, back then in the seventeenth century, rum was a libation already well-known to the sailors in the Caribbean seeing how the privateers and pirates alike all traded in it. Yet the use of rum as rations didn't catch on immediately with the Royal Navy, this being the British we're talking about, and their being sticklers for custom and all that. Despite all that plentiful rum, they just kept on drinking their sour beer and slimy water."

The boys all snickered as Jack reenacted the act, complete with a gag and a grimace. Regaining his composure, he shrugged himself thoroughly of the thought and wiped his mustache and beard, straightened, pulling another card out of his pocket with a flourish, and read, "In fact, it wasn't until 1731 that rum became part of the "Regulations and Instructions Relating to His Majesty's Service at Sea", at which time a half a pint of rum was made equal to the provision of a gallon of beer."

"Captain Sparrow?" a querulous voice asked from the rear of the group.

"Aye?" Jack squinted to see who was interrupting his lecture.

"Might there have been other events of historical interest, as well, in the 17th century?" Mrs. Dunderhall asked pointedly. "Such as the war against piracy?"

"Weren't no war to speak of, less you're talking of that debacle that bloody Lord eunuch Beckett was responsible for."

"_Mister_ Sparrow! The children!" Sister Agnes covered the ears of the nearest boy, who wriggled free to hear more.

"Captain, _Captain_ Sparrow, darling," Jack smiled sweetly at the red-faced nun. "No need to be getting your knickers in a twist, I won't be elaborating in front of these fine, upstanding young gents, on the deficiencies of his Lordship's… er… equipment."

Jack turned back to Mrs. Dunderhall with a tip of his hat. "Seeing as much of the reason behind the rise in piracy can be directly linked to the deplorable conditions on board the Naval and merchant vessels of that time, of which the ultimate dilution of the rum was a major part, I would say, the history of the noble drink is most pertinent to the discussion of the Royal Navy." He winked at the boys and said cheerfully, "Now, if you'd be so kind as to all step over here, we will take a closer look at said conditions as they existed for your average marine."

They stepped around the corner to where a facsimile of a sailing ship had been carefully recreated, so that one could actually walk through the ship and experience the feel of being below deck. The boys were of course terribly excited and soon were clamoring all at once for answers to their many questions.

Jack finally whistled loudly and raising a hand, said in a loud voice, "AVAST!" Having the boys attention once again, Jack resumed his tour.

"We now come to this man here." Jack said, gesturing to the next display. "Vice-Admiral Edward Vernon is known as the Father of Grog."

"What's grog?" One of the boys asked, raising his hand.

"A travesty to nature, that's what," Jack answered with a huff. "You see, by the time ol' Vernon here came along, straight rum was being commonly issued to sailors aboard ship - and drunkenness and lack of discipline were just as commonly becoming problems. Not to mention the many accidents that were directly attributed to this daily ration of rum." Jack pointed up at the ship behind them, and said, "Just imagine trying to climb up the rigging of a tall sailing ship after drinking half a pint of rum neat. No easy task when sober or even when the seas were calm."

"Mister Sparrow, they are just boys!" Mrs. Dunderhall said, indignantly.

Jack squinted at the group and leaning surreptitiously, asked the nearest one,"You sailor. Exactly how old are you?"

"Eight years, three months and twenty-one days, sir!"

"Hmmm, yes, suppose you would be a mite young to be drinking your rum neat." Jack brightened and grinned at the boys. "How fortuitous for us all that there are people like Admiral Vernon and Mrs. Dunderhall in the world, to splice the mainbrace and keep our courses straight and true."

"Why I never…" Mrs. Dunderhall sputtered.

"So," Jack held up on finger to hush her and paused dramatically. "On August 21, 1740, which by the way shows the monumental importance of this epic event as it is recorded for posterity to the exact date, Admiral Edward "Old Grogram" Vernon of the Royal Navy issued the following Order to Captains."

Jack pulled a parchment out from his jacket pocket and unrolled it. Clearing his throat, he read in his most official voice:

_"Whereas it manifestly appears...to be the unanimous opinion of both Captains and Surgeons, that the pernicious custom of the seamen drinking their allowance of rum in drams, and often at once, is attended with many fatal effects to their morals as well as their health...and which...cannot be better remedied than by ordering their half pint of rum to be daily mixed with a quart of water, which they that are good husbandmen may...purchase sugar and limes to make more palatable to them." _

Jack glanced around at the wide eyes of his audience, who, to a boy, hadn't a clue what he'd just read. Rolling the parchment back up, he tapped the top of the nearest boy's head and asked, "Tell me, Charlie, just what did this proclamation do?"

"Um, get the crew mad?" The boy asked, timidly.

"Good man!" Jack clapped him on the shoulder, as the boy grinned widely. "Exactly! This practice didn't do a thing to improve moral, nor did it solve the problems they were having with the men. Mostly it just pissed them off."

"Mister Sparrow!"

"Sorry, Sister," Jack grinned.

"So what exactly IS grog?" Father McGillicutty asked.

"Glad you asked, Padre," Jack said. "Admiral Vernon originally ordered the exact specifications of rum to water be mixed on deck and in the presence of the Lieutenant of the Watch, so as not to be accused of cheating a man out of his ration. 'Course not all ships followed the exact recipe, as it were. Vernon ordered a quarter of water to a half a pint of rum or four to one. Others ordered three to one, and there was even one fellow, a stingy bast…er, miser, Admiral Keith, who issued grog at a ratio of five to one. Needless to say, his crew were a bit on the surly side."

Jack snapped open the black box hanging at his side and showed it around to the appreciative boys. "The sailors, now, they named their mixtures of grog by way of compass points. Due North was pure rum and due West water alone. WNW would therefore be one third rum and two thirds water, NW half and half, and so on and so forth. So, Johnny, if a seaman were to have two 'nor-westers'," Jack whirled and waved the compass under a lad's nose, "What'd he have?" As the boy's mouth worked soundlessly, Jack clapped him on the back and answered for him, "He'd had two glasses of half rum and half water. Savvy?"

The boys all murmured in awe at the sea captain swaying before them, as if he were once again on the deck of a majestic sailing ship. With a wave of his arm, Jack addressed them again.

"So, to answer your question, Padre, say you're throwing a party at the vicarage, and want to serve a bit of ol' Vernon's grog to your guests."

"Why, I never, I mean, I don't think…" Father McGillicutty sputtered.

"Of course you do!" Jack waved away his protest. "Admiral Vernon's Lime Grog is as British as the Queen herself." He paused, and added, "Though I suppose an Irishman such as yourself wouldn't be that worried about that part. Nevertheless, you would start by mixing in a large jar, some fresh-squeezed lime juice and brown sugar, diluted with the water and rum. Now make sure and use a good old-fashioned dark rum, Jamaican, preferably."

"Are we here to learn about history or about bartending?" Mrs. Dunderhall asked in a huff.

"Shhh," Mr. Bailey waved a hand at her, and hurriedly resumed writing in his appointment book. "One pint of rum, one pound brown sugar…"

Jack nodded to the adults in the group. "This is your so-called "four water" grog. You can always tighten it up, although once you're in two-water territory you'll quickly find your guests "stupefying their rational qualities, which makes them heedlessly slaves to every passion," as the good admiral warned. But then again, your guests probably don't have a ship to run or any rigging to climb."

He waved a hand at the boys and added, "Leave the rum out and use the full pound of brown sugar and you've got a delightful punch for the kiddies' birthday party. The grownups, they can always hit their ration with a "stick," as it used to be called, of the ol' kill-devil. Just make sure and keep the bottle out of range of little hands."

"Sixteen limes, one quart of water," Mr. Bailey muttered while writing.

"And there you have it, folks. A concise history of the Royal Navy during the Age of Sail. I do hope you've enjoyed this little tour."

"It was most delightful and positively edifying, if you ask me," Mr. Bailey said enthusiastically.

"Just one question, Captain Sparrow, if I may?" Father McGillicutty asked.

"Aye?"

"Where did they ever come up with the term, 'Nelson's Blood' for rum?"

Jack looked around carefully and beckoned the cleric to come nearer. The rest of the group all gathered closely around Jack as he conspired with them in a low voice.

"As legend would have us believe, after Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson was mortally wounded at the great battle of Trafalgar in 1805, his body was encased in a large barrel of rum for the long journey home. Nelson had requested that when he died, he did not want to be buried at sea, which was common tradition, but would prefer to be buried in England. Now, sometime during the voyage, it was discovered that the barrel was almost empty of the rum. You see," Jack's voice sunk to a whisper, as if divulging the most secret of secrets, "it is believed that the sailors on-board the flagship_ H.M.S. Victory_ had drilled a small hole in the bottom of the cask and had been drinking the rum for good luck."

"I say!" Mister Bailey exclaimed.

Jack smirked and removing his hat, gave them a bow and said brightly, "Now, if you will excuse me, I really must run. I have promised a certain blacksmith and colleague of mine to help set up the next exhibit, a historically accurate rendition of Fort Charles, in Port Royal, Jamaica. Complete with jail cells, and half-pin barrel hinges."


	5. Chapter 5 Unwritten History, Rewritten

Part 5:

No British cultural project would be complete without an accompanying scandal. After all, the British Museum itself was founded on the collection of Sir Hans Sloane, who died in 1753, and the scandalously conducted lottery launched that same year to pay for it. And one cannot forget the notorious cleaning of the Elgin marbles, those famous sculptures of the Parthenon, in 1938. That particular scandal made it all the way to Parliament. Or the Crystal Skull, supposedly an Aztec symbol of death, bought in 1897, and one of the most famous fakes acquired by the British Museum, when more recent analysis showed it had been cut and polished with a 19th century rotating wheel.

Not to mention the first Archaeopteryx fossil, not yet disproved, but which a disreputable black market dealer tried to sell to the British Museum for an extortionate price. When the Museum balked at the high price, the notorious paleontologist Richard Owen embezzled the money from the Museum's funds, and bought it anyway, and then blamed the deal on a hapless assistant, who had been stupid enough to sign all letters to the dealer with his own name.

Oh yes, the Museum was not without egg on its face. Remember the famous "Piltdown Man"? British paleontologists championed the 1912 find, (that Britain was the cradle of humankind was almost too good to be true!), even though the French and American scientific communities remained skeptical. It wasn't until 1953, upon re-examination, that it was found to be a fake.

So, it was certainly understandable that the Museum's Board of Directors were cautious about touting the marvels of their newest acquirement, a rum loving, apparently ageless artifact from the past, a Maritime Marvel, as one newspaper peddled, a Salty Breath of Fresh Air, another. An Authentic Relic of a Bygone Age, a third. The fact of the matter was, they were unsure exactly WHAT to make of the infamous sea captain, who single-handedly had put the Museum's operating budget in the black for the first time in almost a century.

If one were to ask the man himself, he would have laughed at the irony of it. After all, he had never purported to be anything than what he was, a part-time tour guide and self proclaimed bibliophile, whose extensive knowledge of the Age of Sail, among other things, could be attributed to his many hours spent in the Museum's Reading Room. The fact that his "facts" seemed to be more first-hand experience than book learned was what had sparked the current air of suspicion in the Museum's Board Room.

"He is a leading expert in the field of Marine Archeology, and came highly recommended," Mr. Bailey offered in defense of the good Captain.

"He's a con artist," Sir Henry Bumpkins had snorted, looking down his long nose through his glasses. "An uneducated, itinerant treasure seeker. I don't see how stumbling across a few sunken ships qualify one as a historian. Humph. He's a fraud, I tell you. A disgrace to the Museum."

"A highly profitable one," Mr. Peabody had added, smoothing a few stray hairs across his balding palate. "We have tours booked through the next quarter. There has even been talk of the Queen Herself wanting a tour."

"Scandalous!" Mrs. Dunderhall sputtered! "The Queen? What topic will he choose for her? 17th Century Sexual Conduct and Deviations, as he did to that group of senior citizens from the Sunny Valley Nursing Home? The Medicinal Uses for Rum, as he edified a group of young boys from the local parish school?"

"Don't forget the Twenty Uses for Gun Powder besides Shooting Your Nemesis or the Twelve Most Common Social Diseases in the Port Cities," Mrs. Salisbury-Seals added helpfully.

"He is just another Barnum, that's what he is." Sir Henry said, thumping his fist on the table. "And I intend to see him exposed for what he is."

"And what is that?" Mr. Bailey asked quietly. "Captain Sparrow has never claimed to _be_ anything but what he appears to be – a highly entertaining and knowledgeable sailor, whose love of history is only surpassed by his love of the sea. I don't see how any of this should affect the Museum in any way, except by garnering positive Press for a change. Not to mention much needed funds."

"It is scandalous," Sir Henry pressed on. "The Royal Navy, the East India Trading Company, two of our most esteemed organizations, responsible for years of posterity and triumph for the British Empire, maintaining our superiority on the seas and in trade, only to be defiled and debased by this man. It is a disgrace to the Empire."

"I hardly think the Empire exists any longer," Mr. Bailey said dryly. "And what Captain Sparrow has said has all been proven true. Are we to ignore the atrocities of the past in favor of National Pride?"

"I still motion we remove him from the exhibit before the Queen's visit." Sir Henry looked around the table at the Board Members. "Those in favor say 'Aye'."

"Aye." Mr. Peabody said resolutely.

"Aye." Echoed Mrs. Salisbury-Seals.

"Aye. And it's about time, too!" Mrs. Dunderhall exclaimed.

"Now wait a minute," Mr. Bailey protested weakly.

"Sorry, ol' chap," Sir Henry said, smiling widely. "The 'Ayes' have it. You're just going to have to ring up Sparrow and tell him his services are no longer needed."

"This is preposterous!" Mr. Bailey stood up and addressed the Board. "Mark my words, this will not be the end of it."

Truer words have never been spoken.

xxxx

"Yes, I understand," Will Turner was saying to the person on the other end of the line. "No, I don't think it will be. Of course. I'll let him know. Yes. Thank you for calling. I am too. No, this won't affect the work on the Ft. Charles exhibit. No. I will. Thanks again. Bye."

Will hung up the phone, his brow furrowed in thought. Jack glanced up from the crossword puzzle he was doing and asked casually, "Who was on the phone?"

"That was Mr. Bailey. From the Museum." Will ran a hand through his hair.

Jack smiled. "Ah yes, Mr. Bailey. He was much appreciative for my Grog recipe, said it was smashing."

Will smiled briefly, then sighed. "He said he'd just left a meeting with the Museum's Board of Directors. Apparently they…"

"Fired me," Jack answered for him.

"How'd you…?"

"It's obvious, dear Will. The look on your face, the tone of voice." Jack tossed the paper aside and stretched his legs out closer to the fire. "I'm been expecting it. Not sure what took them so long." He chuckled and closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

"You're not upset?" Will asked over his shoulder, walking over to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Why should I be?" Jack opened his eyes and smiled. "Not the end of the world. Had a bit of fun while it lasted. Besides," he grinned at Will, "This will leave me with plenty of time to work on the _Pearl_, once we get the permits."

Will returned to the living room and sank down in the other arm chair and settled in comfortably, warming his hands on his cup.

"Have you called the Dockyards yet?"

"They expect an open berth by the end of the week."

"Wonderful!"

"Aye," Jack said, closing his eyes once again. "That it is."

xxxx

"They're still out there," Mr. Peabody said, wiping a worried brow and peeking once more through the blinds to the street below. "There must two hundred of them."

"That's preposterous!" Sir Henry Bumpkin said, muttonchops bristling. "Today isn't a school holiday as far as I know."

"See for yourself!" Mr. Peabody let the blinds drop and sank wearily into a chair. "This is the second time this week, and this time they have signs."

"Signs?" Mrs. Salisbury-Seals asked incredulously. "What sort of signs?"

"Protest signs," Mr. Bailey said dryly. "I told all of you this was a bad idea, letting Captain Sparrow go. Now the museum is not only being picketed, by school children nonetheless, but we've had over 20,000 persons canceled their memberships, just this week alone! AND demanding a refund on their scheduled tours."

"Twenty thousand?" Mrs. Dunderhall squeaked. "That is the equivalence of…"

"All the museum's income from the past year." Mr. Bailey shuffled some papers around. "Not to mention the bad Press. Look at these headlines." He held up the latest editions of the papers, across which screaming in bold letters read, "Museum Clips Sparrow's Wings," Sparrow Sunk in Museum Firing," "Age of No Sales for Museum," and the worst of them all, "Queen Claims Museum Tour a Bore."

Chanting could be heard faintly from the street below. Mr. Peabody looked out nervously once again. "They are calling for our resignations!"

"Balderdash!" Sir Henry huffed. "Over some third-rate con artist? Poppycock!"

"Perhaps we ought to reconsider our position," Mrs. Dunderhall said resignedly.

"While we still have them." Mrs. Salisbury-Seals agreed.

xxxx

"Jack, you have to see this," Will said, folding the newspaper he was reading to the article in question. "Queen Claims Museum Tour a Bore." The headlines screamed.

"Did she now." Jack sniffed and went back to his crossword puzzle. "What's a five letter word for STUPID, second letter U?"

"Dunce." Will answered automatically, scanning the story. "Listen to this," he said, reading aloud.

"The Queen express disappointment when finding out her private tour of the highly ballyhooed Age of Sail exhibit at the British Museum would not be conducted by that illustrious colorful character, Captain Jack Sparrow, whose recent firing has caused a major uproar in the museum-going public. Her Majesty's tour was instead led by the conservative (and oh so boring, according to reports), Sir Henry Bumpkin. Rumor has it, afterward in the loo, the Queen was heard to comment that, while the exhibit it self was spot on, the accompanying commentary was as dull as watching paint dry. Of course, this is all heresy, for whoever heard of Her Majesty using a public loo in the first place?"

Will chuckled and tossed the paper across the breakfast table. "There are five other articles, all protesting your firing." Will gazed fondly at Jack. "I always said you were charming."

Jack's lips twitched in amusement. "I knew you couldn't resist." He tapped his puzzle with his pencil. "What's a twelve letter word for hopeless?"

"Incorrigible." Will laughed.

xxxx

In the end, due to public demand and incessant pressure from the Press all the way up to the Queen, and wishing to avoid further scandal, the Museum relented and reinstated Captain Jack Sparrow to his former position of part-time tour guide and full-time colorful character. The fact of the matter was, the added bonus and increased salary (both negotiated with cut-throat proficiency by the Captain himself), not to mention the reduced tour schedules of two days a week and twice on Saturdays, went a long way towards the _Black Pearl_ restoration fund.

As for Captain Sparrow, he waved the entire event off as something not worth troubling his mind over. After all, he had much more better things to be worrying about, now that beloved was tucked into Berth E29-WR at the London dockyard.


	6. Chapter 6 Doppleganger

"You found a puppy?"

Will raised one brow at the scraggly bundle of wiry fur tucked inside Jack's coat. Two coal black eyes peered out from under a brow that seemed familiar…

"I couldn't just leave him there in the cold, could I?"

"I suppose not," Will said slowly. "He would have frozen out there tonight."

Jack scratched the pup's head and was rewarded with a nip from sharp teeth.

"Feisty little bugger, aren't you?" Jack said with a crooked grin. "Remind me of someone too, just can't quite place it…"

"Gibbs!" Will said, triumphantly, snapping his fingers.

Jack studied the small creature closely. "Aye, uncanny resemblance."

He set the stocky terrier down on the hearth rug, where he curled up next to the blazing fire and fell asleep.

"Taking after his namesake, I see." Jack said, joining Will on the sofa. "I was told they make good ratters."

"Told?" Will turned to where he could look Jack in the eye. "You said you _found_ him."

"Well, I did. Sort of. In a way." Jack grinned. "Found him in a box with five others, sign said 'free'."

"Jack! We don't need a puppy. We're barely here as it is." Will sighed. "And besides, what are you going to do with him when you sail?"

"Ol' Gibbs there will make an excellent sailor. You wait."

The puppy woke and yawned widely before coming over to them. Putting his paws on the sofa, he wagged his tail hopefully.

"He's cute, I'll give him that." Will said with a smile.

"Then we have an accord?" Jack nuzzled Will's neck only to find a furry face instead. He set the puppy on the floor and waggled a stern finger at it. "You seem to have inherited your namesake's impeccable timing as well. Now shoo!"


	7. Chapter 7 Plan B

"We're having fish… _again_?" Jack poked at the white paper packet on the counter, wrinkling his nose in what could not be mistaken for anything but disdain.

"What's wrong with fish?" Will frowned, removing the other items from the grocery sack. "Besides, it's good for you."

"So is broccoli, but I don't want to be eating it six days a week."

"It hasn't been six days." Will shook him head in amusement. "Really, Jack. You do like to exaggerate."

Jack grumbled softly, "Well, it _feels_ like bloody six days." Louder he added, seductively, "Besides, love, you shouldn't have to cook every night."

"Is that so? And you have a better suggestion?"

"_I _can cook."

"You." Will arched an eyebrow. "If I remember correctly, your cooking has resulted in the fire station memorizing our address."

"It was a simple mistake, an overreaction." Jack waved a dismissive hand. "A fluke."

"A fire, Jack. Could have burnt the place down."

"But I didn't." Jack brightened. "And this has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you do not need to be slaving over a hot stove every night."

"Like I said, you have a better suggestion?" Will bent down and rummaged around in the cupboard for a pan. Over his shoulder he added, "You ARE hungry, I take it."

"Starving. Famished. _Ravenous_, as a matter of fact," Jack said, sidling up to the _oh,_ so tempting and delightful bottom just waggling in front of him. Cupping his palms to the rounded contours he knew and loved so much, he murmured, "Can't seem to get me fill, no matter how much I consume."

"Jack," Will sighed, resigned under his own weaknesses, molding his rear into Jack, so perfect a fit, so tempting… "We will never eat at this rate."

"And the problem with that is…?" Jack wrapped his arms around Will, pulling him close while running his hands along Will's sides and chest.

Will leaned back and hummed softly, his hands covering Jack's.

"We can always order pizza."

Jack grinned as he nipped Will's neck. "That is what I love about you, William Turner."

"What's that?"

"You always have a Plan B."

"High praise from the king of the contingency plan."

xxxx

Jeremiah Grossman gazed up at the brownstone with resignation. He checked the order again – Two large pizzas, all the way, hold the onion, double mushrooms, black and green olives, no anchovies, no pepperoni, no sausage, double meatballs.

Why bother to ask for them "all the way" if they're going to be so picky?

He sighed. His last order of the night. Go in, get paid, get off work. He hoped the match hadn't started yet, as he was determined to reach a new level in the game. And with Cindy.

Ah, Cindy. Black hair, black lipstick, black nails. Perfectly gruesome and deadly at _Grave Robbers From Outer Space_.

She was a natural. After all, she planned to be a mortician when she graduated. IF she graduated.

Jeremiah took the steps two at a time and rang the doorbell. Hopefully he'd get a good tip, enough to buy her a double espresso mocha supreme.

He rang the doorbell again and impatiently stomped his feet to ward off the cold, as several minutes passed without response. He was just about to give up when the door opened a crack and a dark eye peered out.

"Pizza delivery," he piped in his most cheery voice.

The door opened to a bare chested, bare footed man with tousled, wild hair. He smiled widely and yanked the delivery boy and pizzas into the foyer.

"Damn bloody cold out there!"

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah said, holding out the pizzas, eager to leave. "That will be $22.95."

"Right!" The customer felt around in his pants pockets, and frowned. "Hold up there, won't be a moment." He dashed off down the hallway.

Jeremiah waited, shifting from one foot to another as he glanced around the room. A large, obviously ancient ship's figurehead took up one corner of the living room, apparently in the final stages of restoration. Intrigued, he set the pizzas down on the table in the foyer and, glancing around, sidled up to the wooden lady and reached out a hand--

"Oi! What you doing?"

"Nothing," the boy crammed his hands into his jacket pockets, red creeping up his face. "I was just…"

"Well, don't even 'nothing'." The man glared and handed him several bills and added, "Keep the change."

"Is she real?" Jeremiah ventured shyly, gazing up at the unseeing eyes of the angel, her outreached arm gently holding a bird in flight.

"Of course she's real."

"She's beautiful."

"Aye, that she is." The man's demeanor softened as he gazed at the figurehead, and without turning to look, asked suddenly, "Ever been to sea, lad?"

"I went on a cruise ship once, with my folks. To the Bahamas."

"Bloody abominations," the man cringed. "That's not bloody sailing. Might as well be at the fucking mall." He reached up and stroked the small bird, murmuring to himself. "No, the Age of Sail is over, no one understands, no one remembers…"

Jeremiah started sliding towards the front door. He had just enough time to change and get over to the Café before Cindy arrived. He wanted to show her his new iPhone, and the apps he'd gotten since their last date. He didn't pay much heed to the man's words, catching only a scarce few – freedom, purpose, treasure.

Came with the job, these eccentrics and their weird hobbies.

Hopping onto his scooter, Jeremiah blasted off into the night. If he'd been listening, he might have heard the call of the seabird, echoing across the winds of time.

Calling, calling…

Jeremiah cranked up his iPod and without another thought, drove off into the 21st Century.

xxxx

"Was that the pizza guy?" Will asked, coming out of the bathroom and drying his hair as he joined Jack in the living room.

Jack didn't say anything, just clung his arms around his lover and held him tight.

"What's this?" Will murmured softly, stroking Jack's hair. "You were so chipper earlier."

"Nothing, love. Memories."

The two immortals stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, lulled in each other's remembering presence, no words needed.

Jack broke the spell with a slap on Will's butt and a peck of a kiss to his lips. "What say you to pizza and a movie?"

"Anything in particular?" Will said, laughing as he went to fetch the plates and napkins.

"Oh, I was fancying a bit of old time horror, you know, those godawful B movies your friend made in the 50's."

"Eddie?" Will asked, setting them a place on the coffee table and heading back to the kitchen for some beer. "Which one? _Glen or Glenda_?"

"I was thinking something more fitting for the occasion," Jack said, rifling through the DVDs. "Ah, here it is, ta-da!"

He held up the cover for Will to see.

_Plan Nine from Outer Space._

"Not quite a 'Plan B'," Jack quipped. "But the zombies are neat."

Will settled down cross-legged on the sofa and opened the pizza box, handing Jack a slice.

"Perfect. I haven't seen Vampira in ages. " He bit a large mouthful and mumbled, "Did you know she fancied you?"

"And Eddie fancied you, there weren't a question about that," a very slight remnant of past jealousy crept into Jack's voice, belayed instantly by an eye roll from Will's direction.

"Would you pass me a beer, dear," Jack grinned, picking the remote and nestling himself comfortably at Will's side.

_"Greetings my friends. We are all interested in the future for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives…"_


	8. Chapter 8 Restoration Man

"Did you hear the news?" Will called as he set down his tool bag in the foyer.

"What news?" Jack asked over his shoulder, delicately applying a final layer of oil to the ship's figurehead he was restoring.

Will shrugged off his rain-soaked coat and muddy boots and padded in stocking feet into the living room. He took the newspaper he was holding and thrust it under Jack's nose.

"The Museum Board has finally agreed on a ten-country tour of the Age of Sail exhibit. It is scheduled to open next month in Barcelona."

"Is that so," Jack mumbled, brushing the outstretched paper aside and depositing his brush in a jar of spirits. "What does it have t' do with us? You're no longer working on the project, and I'm… well, let's say it was good fun while it lasted."

What Jack was referring to was his resignation as part-time museum guide, in order to spend all his time on the restoration of his beloved ship, the _Black Pearl. _Work had progressed slower than expected, mostly due to the fact that Jack insisted on being present for every part of the process, hovering like a mother hen over the contractors as they worked to replace the worn fittings and rotted planks.

The _Pearl_ had arrived at the London dockyards nine months previous, her bow and stern sagging considerably. Her general condition had indicated the need for immediate dry docking and major restoration work. All rigging, spars, ballast, guns, and non-structural interior items had been removed before reconstruction began. Most of these items were stored in a nearby warehouse, but several more precious articles had made their way to her captain's house, including the _Black Pearl's_ hallmark figurehead, once instantly recognizable in a by-gone age.

Special measures had to be taken to keep the ship from drying out while in drydock, her hull draped with canvas to keep moist air in and the sun out, and several inches of water kept in the bottom of the drydock, to keep everything moist.

Specialists in wooden ship restoration had been hired from other museums and ship restoration operations, the majority of funding being provided from a special grant Jack had obtained through his work at the museum. The only stipulation being that the ship, once fully restored, would become part of the Age of Sail worldwide tour the following Spring.

A stipulation Jack had conveniently forgotten about. Until now.

"You know as well as me what this means, Jack." Will tossed the paper on the coffee table and flopped down in the overstuffed arm chair, stretching his feet towards the fire blazing in the hearth.

Jack stood and, wiping his hands on a towel, came over to where Will was warming himself and bent down for a quick kiss.

"The_ Pearl_ is not ready for the masses," he groused. "Haven't even sailed her proper yet. The exhibit will have to open without us."

"I thought she was to be fitted with sails this week," Will said, patting his knee. Jack snuggled onto his lap and planted a longer, more satisfying kiss, effectively ending the discussion for the moment.

xxxx

Later that evening, after a satisfying tumble, Will brought up the subject again.

"You can't just take the museum's money and then renege on your promise."

"Who said anything about reneging?" Jack tossed Will his boxers and slipped out of bed, heading for a hot shower. "She's just not ready, yet."

"I think it is you who are not ready," Will said, smiling as he joined Jack. "According to the latest reports, all structural work has been completed. All that remains is fitting the sails and returning the lovely lady in our living room to her rightful place."

Will was correct of course. In both assessments. For the _Pearl_, at least structurally, the restoration was almost complete. The shipwrights had replaced all the deteriorated wood, replaced virtually all of the knees, added considerable structural bracing, and replaced all cracked or weakened metal fittings.

She has received all new laminated spars, designed to last longer than previous built-up spars. All new rigging has been fitted; all interior bulkheads, fancy work and other non-structural items have been replaced or refurbished.

The hull had then been entirely recaulked. Amazingly, much of her hull structure was still original. The keel, keelsons, stem, sternpost, and many ribs and planks were all original.

Will had seen personally to all the metalwork required, setting up a temporary forge at the dockyards to alleviate the need to transport the pieces. And throughout the entire process, there was the ever present Captain Sparrow, flitting about from project to project, overseeing every detail of the operation.

Now, her new canvas cut and set to be fitted, it appeared the restoration work was right on schedule, and the_ Black Pearl, _gracefully poised like a debutante, ready for the grand tour of the Age of Sail exhibit.

There was only one snag.

Jack.

"I understand your reluctance, Jack," Will said later, as they shared a late dinner in front of the fire. "But you agreed to the terms when you signed the contracts."

"I agreed to allow the _Pearl_ to be part of the exhibit, which I took to be off limits to human contact." He shuddered. "It is too awful to think about, all those people, grubby handed children, pompous buffoons, sullying me ship." He shook his head and waved a hand towards the figurehead. "She won't stand for it."

"I am sure the _Pearl_ will understand, once you explain things," Will said soothingly. "When are you scheduled to refloat her?"

"Tuesday, if this bloody rain will ever cease."

"Great! I don't have anything scheduled that day. I will come with you."

"You'll talk to her?" Jack grasped Will's hand as a lifeline.

"Certainly. We will do it together."

"It'll be like old times."

"Better."

"Much more better."


	9. Chapter 9 Of Mice and Men1

It all started with the phone calls. The _secretive_ phone calls, the ones Jack would take outside, grabbing the phone on the first ring. Or in the bathroom. Or even the closet, where Will once found Jack, huddled in the corner, hand over his mouth as he whispered into the receiver.

Then came the extended absences. The excuses that didn't quite ring true. The evasive answers when asked whether he'd be home for dinner. Will did not pry, he figured Jack would tell him if he wanted him to know. Past experiences, where Will had made hasty, and miserably wrong conclusions, suggested him to stay quiet.

Will did eventually find out who was on the other end of the line, quite by accident, when he'd overheard a particularly animated conversation between Jack and… the other.

"No, Michel, it will NOT do. The date cannot be changed. It must be Easter, that is the only time the bloody contractors aren't working on the _Black Pearl_. That Sunday and Monday. Yes, I already told you, just the two of us. Perfect. Are you sure? Henri, you say. Hmmm, I can see the resemblance. He DOES look remarkably like Will. Same build too. Fine, he'll do. Remember, the docks, 6 am sharp. We are due to sail at nine. Oh, and Michel? I owe you."

Jack hung up the phone and opened the closet door to find Will standing there, one eyebrow raised.

"Henri?"

"Ah, Will, fancy meeting you here!" Jack brushed past him and shouted over his shoulder as he took the steps two at a time. "Gotta run, see to the _Pearl_."

Will took a deep breath and helplessly unclenched his fists. So this was how it would be after all. Fine.

Later that evening Will found himself aimlessly wandering the streets, through the dark clouds of jealousy, past the crowded pubs and restaurants, their cheerful lights spilling onto the sidewalk, their sounds of merriment only adding to his misery. It hadn't taken Will long to figure out who Michel was. The maitre'd at the _Maison de Paris_, their favorite French restaurant. Will had noticed Michel was always extra attentive whenever they'd dined there, bustling around Jack like he were channeling Pierre. An uncanny resemblance in many ways, come to think of it. He could only assume that this Henri also worked there.

Will's steps, to his surprise, had unconsciously taken him to that exact locale. Looking in through the multi-paned window at the familiar room beyond, with its immaculate white linen table cloths, and silver place settings sparkling in the candle light, it wasn't hard to make out Jack, still dressed in his jeans and cotton shirt, leaning on the bar in earnest conversation with the bartender. This must be the infamous Henri.

"He doesn't look a bit like me," Will said bitterly to himself, studying the handsome young man, before turning and wearily making his way back to their flat, suddenly feeling a hundred years old. Infatuation, most likely, but still, it hurt.

At least, it dawned on Will in a sickening thought, it confirmed Jack's plans for Easter bank holiday did not include him.

Jack did not say anything when he came in later that night, just whistled a cheery tune as he jumped into the shower, breaking into song as he did. It wasn't until afterwards, when they'd retired for the night, that Will finally broke his resolve and asked.

"Jack, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Nope. Not a thing. Why?"

Will shrugged, trying to remain casual. "You've just been so busy lately, so distant."

"Got a lot on me mind, darling. No worries. I promise, you'll know soon enough."

"Know what, Jack?"

"Nothing. Night, love."

And with that Jack gave him a peck on the cheek and promptly rolled over and began to snore.

"Fine," muttered Will, who turned his back on Jack as well, though he didn't sleep a wink that night.

The two of them barely spoke that Saturday, Jack begging off their usual weekend routine, to go down to the docks, stating he had some last minute items to attend to. Will, determined to pretend it didn't matter, decided to go to his shop and work on his latest project, a period accurate piece for the museum.

It was late before he returned, only to hear voices coming from their upstairs bedroom.

"No, no, mon cheri, you cannot wear that! This is a special occasion, you must look your best for your paramour. Here, pack this. And this, you always look most charming in your white suit."

Michel. His voice was unmistakable. But packing? Where was Jack going?

"Did you pick up the new suit at the tailor's?" Jack asked. "How did it fit?"

"It was perfection! You should have seen Henri. I do not blame you, mon ami, for if I were to see my lover dressed so, I too would wish to sail off and never return."

Will swallowed and turned away, stumbling out into the night. It had finally happened. This time there weren't a new boat to be revealed to Will's surprise, no wrong ideas to be had; Jack had tired of him, found a new lover and was going away. Pain swept over him in waves as he debated going back and confronting Jack or just walking away.

He didn't have a chance to do either before the front door opened and the two men emerged, each carrying a large suitcase. Will ducked into the shadow of the building and watched as they placed the bags into the trunk of Michel's car. Jack embraced Michel with a big hug and pats on the back, and then handed him several bills, thanking him again for his services.

"The docks, 6 am sharp." Jack said. "Berth 27."

"We will have everything there, mon ami. Bonjour!"

Jack whistled as he skipped up the steps to the flat, obviously excited about the coming day. Will, taking several gulps of air, straightened his shoulders and followed more slowly, opening the door to find Jack waiting for him, drinks in hand.

"Hello, Jack. Wasn't expecting to find you here," Will said coolly.

"Where else would I be?" Jack asked, surprise on his face. "I live here."

"For how long, Jack?" Will asked, suddenly needing a release. "Until you sail tomorrow with your new lover, Henri?"

"Whut?" Jack opened his mouth in genuine alarm.

"Oh yes, Jack, I know all about Henri." Will pressed on. "Were you ever going to tell me? Or was I going to wake up to find you gone, perhaps just a note? I cannot believe this."

"Will, how did you…?"

"I overheard you, just now. With Michel. I am not stupid, Jack. I can put two and two together."

"Will," Jack said, putting the untouched drinks down and spreading his hands wide. "It is not what it seems, really."

"Then what is it, Jack?" Will brushed past him and went into the living room where he began to pace.

"It was to be a surprise, that's what." Jack planted himself in front of Will, words tumbling out in a rush to explain. "I thought we could get away for a few days."

"You and Henri?" Will asked bitterly.

"No, you ninny! You and me. You've been working so hard, and I've been tied up with the _Black Pearl_, I thought we could use a weekend away. You know, take the _Flying Pearl_ out for a cruise. Just the two of us." He grasped Will's hands in his. "Henri, he was just a manikin."

At Will's blank look, he added. "For the new suit I had made for you. For the occasion. Wanted it to be a surprise, that's all."

Will, whose unstable emotions had just soared like the _Flying Pearl_ herself, suddenly felt an enormous weight lifted. Wrapping his arms around Jack he buried his face in Jack's neck and said softly, "I thought, I thought..."

Jack hugged Will closer, tight as if he'd never let go, running his hands up and down Will's back. "Why ever would I want anyone else? To sail with, to be with, to love?" He kissed Will's ear and whispered, "I have everything I could possibly ever need right here."


	10. Chapter 10 Of Mice and Men2

They sailed up the Thames on a glorious Easter morn, the pealing of church bells accompanying them as they made their way towards the open sea. The faint whiff of sea on the morning breeze whisked away all the dark emotions of the previous days, cleansing them, the salty air welcoming them home.

True to his word, Michel had been at the docks promptly at six to help load the special supplies Jack had ordered onto the _Flying Pearl_.

A bushel of fresh oysters on ice. A case of rum and a crate of limes. A cage of live lobsters for the boat's live well. Freshly baked bread, a basket of the finest tropical fruits. Crates and boxes filled with other items, all essential to the perfection of the outing planned.

The final items to be stowed aboard were the new clothes – the white linen suits and matching Panama hats, the colorful flowered shirts so popular in the islands. The thick terry towels and robes.

Jack had plotted their course meticulously, making sure they had ample time to reach their destination before the sun set. For Will, he didn't care where they were going, it just felt so wonderful to be at sea once again, alone, with Jack, not a care in the world.

They had talked long into the night, making love with a new intensity, each of them needing the reassurance and affirmation of each other. Now, despite the lack of sleep, both Jack and Will felt more alive than they had in ages. Risen, reborn, renewed.

Jack and Will handled the boat and sails fluidly, side by side, as long ago, each of them instinctively knowing what needed to be done, no words needed.

"Reminds me of the time we sailed to Tortuga," Jack said, as they settled into a steady course, the light breeze filling the sails.

Will smiled, it seemed like another lifetime, another world. But not another Jack. He glanced fondly over at Jack, legs braced, hair whipping in the wind. If he squinted, Will could just make out the Captain Jack Sparrow of old, even without the tricorn hat and jangling trinkets.

"You taught me something important," Will mused, joining Jack at the wheel, wrapping an affectionate arm around his shoulders.

"What's that? How to sail?"

Will laughed. "I already knew how to sail, remember? I worked on ships for passage to the West Indies."

"Right. So what then?" Jack leaned in for a kiss, lingering longer, savoring the moment.

"You told me, quite ceremoniously, after you knocked me off the ship…"

"There's what a man can do and what a man can't," Jack finished. "

"Exactly."

"You taught me a thing or two yourself, you know," Jack said.

"Really? Do share."

"Let's see, it might be, 'Never judge a book by its cover', or perhaps, 'Actions speak louder than words'."

Will smiled and wrapped his arms around Jack, pulling him closer to where he could whisper in his ear, "Let's not forget, 'Blessing in disguise'."

Jack whispered back, "Never, darling. Lesson learned. Noted. Memorized."

--- xxx

"So where are we going?" Will finally asked, as Jack consulted his compass and adjusted course.

"I thought we'd anchor in a secluded cove I know. Should have the place to ourselves, what with this weather."

Will had to agree, for even though the sky was clear and the sun bright, the temperatures had not warmed enough for the holiday day-trippers to seek out the seaside.

They sailed throughout the day, taking turns at the helm. The weather held, the seas remained calm and the voyage was nothing but spectacular. If Will hadn't known better, he'd wouldn't have put it past Jack to make a deal with the sea goddess herself, to make this the perfect day.

The sun was low on the horizon when they reached their destination, anchoring in the deeper waters of the cove. Jack set about loading the dinghy with the supplies he wanted to bring ashore, including an armful of blankets.

They rowed ashore, pulling the boat up onto the sand beyond the water's edge. While Will went to scrounge up some wood for the fire, Jack set up the feast. Spreading several of the blankets out on the sand, he set up a makeshift table with one of the crates, upon which he set an empty wicker wine bottle holding a candle. A pot filled with water would soon be bubbling on the fire for the lobsters, a wet burlap sack would steam the oysters. A crock of butter, a tin of crackers, a bottle of hot sauce, a loaf of bread. All that was missing was… Will.

A flutter of concern passed through Jack's mind and he turned to set off down the beach in the direction he'd seen Will take, only to relax as he saw Will striding over the ridge, carrying a handful of damp kindling.

"Sorry Jack, I couldn't find anything better. Seems the whole island is wet."

Jack grinned, waving his hand at the preparations he'd made, including the stack of dry wood, just waiting to be ignited.

"What the…?" Will started to say, but was hushed by Jack's lips on his.

"Wanted to surprise you. Had to get you away some how." He led Will to the edge of the fire and reaching down, lit the dry kindling with his lighter, fanning the flames until they caught the bigger wood and began to burn brightly.

"Now, my darling, we have the entire night at our disposal. No jobs to worry about, no phones to answer, no worries. Just you and me, love. What say you to that?"

Will snuggled Jack closer, running his hands under Jack's shirt, seeking warm flesh. "I say we go with lesson number two, 'Actions speak louder than words.' Agree?"

"Mister Turner, I'd say we have an accord."

---- xxx

Jack was sitting cross-legged, wielded a small mallet as he cracked open the steaming lobsters, dipping the succulent meat into the crock of melted butter, before feeding them to Will. Chin dripping with butter Will insisted he was too full to take another bite, but couldn't resist the temptation of those elegant, slippery fingers as they slipped yet another morsel between his lips.

Will, not to be out done, in return used his knife to pry open the steamed oysters, adding a squeeze of lime and a dash of hot sauce, before holding them to Jack's mouth.

"You know, Will," Jack said, cupping his hand around Will's and slowly slurping the oyster offered. "In many cultures, these delicacies of the sea are considered to be aphrodisiacs."

"Is that so," Will murmured, suckling Jack's buttery fingers, one at a time.

They lingered over their feast, feeding each other and sharing several bottles of wine.

Jack sighed contentedly and leaned back so his head was resting against Will's chest. The sea breeze was cold, despite the blazing fire, and Will had wrapped both of them in the heavy fleece blanket, forming a cozy nest.

Jack, his lips still shiny from the butter indulged in with the delicious lobsters, snuggled in closer to Will, wrapping them tightly under their heap of blankets. Hiding from the cold with his present company was one of his favourite activities, especially when said company hauled him in his arms and onto his lap, turning the lean man so that he could see his face.

The evening had darkened rapidly, leaving them under the added blanket of the stars above, shining brightly in the crisp English night of April, winking, as if in full cooperation with Jack's successful day of outing with his lover.

"Not quite like Havana," Will grinned affectionately, leaning his head back on Jack's arm wrapping around his neck.

"Not quite. You're wearing _much_ too much clothes." He wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable position, but only ended up upending them both. Cushioned by the heavy covers, both the men laughed softly at the mishap, both resulting that this was indeed the preferred stance for the moment.

The gleam on Jack's lips was rivaled by the one his eyes were shining with in the fleeting second it took for Will to capture those lips with his own, savoring the salt coming not only from their feast, but the sea air, and the tang which was naturally Jack - a combination which never failed to make Will's head spin, always leaving him craving more.

The kiss added itself to their memories with its tenderness, the lingering, soft touch the men tasted each other, eyes closed, noses brushing, until tongues met to enhance the invigorating feel of the other being where they belonged.

Jack parted from the kiss, eyes still closed, sighing deeply with a wide, content smile, and shuffled to lay half on top of Will.

Without words, Jack told Will how much he loved seeing him like this - tousled by the wind, the white light of the stars contrasting Will's face to highlight his cheekbones, his nose, chin, his lips dark and darkened by their kiss. The sight which tugged Jack's heart cords the very first night on the _Interceptor_ an eternity ago.

"Is that the Taurus?" Will attempted humoured nonchalance under the scrutiny, earning Jack to chuckle and pull the blanket over their heads with his cold nose pressing against Will's cheek.

A short trail of kisses to Will's ear and a "I don't know" rumbled in low, electrifying tones directly down Will's spine. Jack continued in secretive whispers, "But whatever terrible beast it might be, we best stay here, lay low, until it passes. With much luck, we might be undetected."

The hair standing up in the back of Will's neck was not from the cold, and the squirming against Jack, together with the small whimper emanating from him was unstoppable, even if he'd tried.

"Shh, love, it might hear us." To prevent further danger, Jack made the quick decision to muffle the rest of the sounds with his mouth, failing miserably as Will tugged on Jack's shirt and delved his hands under the cloth, tentatively brushing the cool tips of his fingers below Jack's shoulder blades.

"I was thinking," Jack drawled with a moan of his own, "we could, if you so wish, sleep right here, on this beach."

Will smiled, seeking Jack's lips in the warming, enveloping darkness. "You think I'll let you sleep?"


	11. Chapter 11 Of Mice and Men3

The rain beat a steady tattoo on the cabin roof, muffling all noise and creating an intimate cocoon inside the cozy room. Jack opened one eye and groaned, before turning over and pulling the covers up over his head… and Will's.

"Bloody weather," he groused, snuggling closer to his slumbering mate.

Will shifted so that Jack could spoon and mumbled, eyes still shut, "I think it is perfect."

"We'll never leave port at this rate," Jack moaned, voice muffled against the pillow.

"Could be worse," Will pointed out. "We could still be on the beach."

Jack wrapped himself around Will and sighed contentedly. "That's what I love about you, Will Turner. Your brilliance. Among other upstanding qualities."

"Don't you mean outstanding?"

"Nope. Up. Definitely."

There was no more talk about the weather…

--- xxx

As it turned out, the rain continued unabated for the entire day. Jack, after grumbling about the bloody weather and its lack of consideration for his plans, a curse or two for the sea goddess who undoubtedly was enjoying herself immensely, finally conceded to the fact that they were not going to make their next port of call as originally planned.

"What was so important about it anyways?" Will asked. "I am perfectly content to just stay here, we have everything we need."

"Not everything," Jack pouted.

"What else could you want?" Will pointed at the crates in the aft. "You stowed enough food and rum to last a month."

"Bloody good thing too. We could be stuck here that long."

"So, I don't see the problem."

"The problem, my dear, is that I had planned, for once in my bloody life I had planned, meticulously if you must know, for this holiday. Staying in bloody port was not part of the plan."

Will placed a hand on his breast and quoted in his best Olde English tones:

_"But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,__  
__In proving foresight may be vain:__  
__The best laid schemes o' mice an' men__  
__Gang aft agley…" _

"It seems we'll just have to go with another Plan B, Mousie," he added, affectionately at Jack's pout.

---- xxx

"How does it fit?" Jack called from the galley, where he'd been banished so as not to ruin the effect of the grand entrance. He put the finishing touches on the mojitoes he was mixing and carried them aft. "I gave Michel the measurements," Jack continued, shouting to be heard over the rain, still drumming a steady beat on the roof. "But he's no Pierre, despite the uncanny resemblance to the contrary."

Jack set the drinks down on the wooden table, careful not to cover the inlays of the _Black Pearl_ and _Flying Dutchman_. This table represented what the _Flying Pearl_ truly was – a boat without previous history, filled only with memories shared, a sanctuary for the two immortals. An escape into a world long past, when the wheel of time moved in a slower circle and traveling was as much about the journey as the destination.

They had christened her in Havana, amidst the turmoil of an island poised on the edge of a revolution. Change was in the air, the atmosphere was charged with intensity and uncertainty. This boat had been their refuge, their sanctuary. A place of sanity and peace.

This was what Jack had hoped to recapture on this voyage. Memories, at least the good ones. He walked over to the phonograph, an old wind-up Victrola he'd picked up in an antique store, and shuffled through a stack of record albums, selecting one and placing it on the turntable, waited for Will to make his appearance.

"What's taking you so long," Jack called loudly, "Do you need help?"

This last sentence trailed off as Will emerged from their cabin, resplendent in his new white linen suit. Jack swallowed, and hand shaking slightly placed the needle on the phonograph album, the slow, sensual rumba music, the sound of an long-gone era filling the air. Turning, he handed Will a mojito and raised his own in a toast.

"To Havana."

"Havana." Will sipped his drink and closed his eyes as he savored the minty coolness.

Jack slipped an arm around Will's waist and in a throaty voice, filled with emotion, murmured, "May I have this dance?"


	12. Legends of the Deep

Legends of the Deep

The new exhibit at the British Museum, _Myths & Legends of the Deep_, opened as a resounding success, mostly due to the eccentric tour guide, Captain Jack Sparrow. Delays on the restoration of the famous pirate ship, the _Black Pearl_, had kept Captain Sparrow in port when the _Age of Sail_ exhibit had embarked on its inaugural world tour. And with the most learned of guides off to sunny Barcelona, the museum board (over loud protests from certain members) had finally agreed to once again recruit the colorful captain to shepherd the hoards of school children, and sundry others through the new exhibit, the promise of additional funding for his ship restoration project being the proverbial carrot dangled in front of his nose.

Arriving on short notice, and not having previewed the exhibit personally, Captain Sparrow had been content to recite off the note cards about the many fascinating creatures of the deep, finding no quibbles with the prepared descriptions until he'd come to the replica of the Kraken.

"They've got it all wrong!" He stepped back in dismay, narrowly missing treading on a freckled-faced youngster from the Priory School of St. Martin and Meads.

"Oi! Watch yourself!" The group of boys hurriedly backed up as Jack continue his tirade, arms windmilling around in protest.

"That's not a Kraken, it's a bloody octopus!" Jack whirled around and jabbed a finger at the nearest boy. "You, lad, you ever seen a Kraken?"

"Er, no sir!" The startled boy answered, backing further away from the gyrating captain.

"Well, I bloody well have! A fearsome creature from the depths, with gigantic tentacles that'll suction your face clean off, and drag an entire ship down to the crushing darkness. The stench of his breath…!" He bent down and added in a hushed voice, "Imagine, the last thing you know on God's green earth, is the roar of the Kraken and the reeking odor of a thousand rotting corpses!"

"Mister Sparrow!" An indignant Sister Magdalene waggled a finger right back at him. "Are you going to stand there in front of all these children and claim you've seen a Kraken?"

"I swear it's true, Sister," Jack said piously, placing a hand on his heart. "As the gods are my witness…"

"And that's another thing, young man! You will refrain from swearing in front of the boys, do I make myself clear?"

Jack blinked at the irate nun. Her white habit, stern countenance and hawk-like nose reminded him of a bit of an albatross, about to be hung around his neck.

Clearing his throat, he swallowed his retort and said simply, "The Kraken, as everyone well knows, was a cephalopod of enormous size, a cuttlefish if you may." He poked a cautious finger at the nun. "Wouldn't want these fine upstanding young gents to get their facts wrong."

"Of course not! This is why we bring them on these outings, to further their education. Now, if we are done here, may we move on to the next exhibit? We do not have all day."

Rolling his eyes, Jack herded the boys to the next panorama.

"Now here we have a delightful display of mermaids and mermen frolicking in the waves…" Jack frowned at the note card and squinting, studied the scene in front of him. Heaving a tremendous sigh, he threw the note cards down in disgust and whirled around to face his audience.

"They have it all wrong again! Who's responsible for this bloody travesty anyways?"

Sister Magdalene stepped forward, arms folded across her ample bosom. "Hmm, yes. And I suppose, Captain Sparrow, you are going to tell us you have met a mermaid on your one of your many voyages as well."

"Plenty. Well, several at least. None of which were either pleasant to look at or to meet. Vicious creatures, more apt to eat you than frolic."

"Oooh!" The boys all exclaimed. "Tell us about the mermaids!" They all clamored at once. "We want to hear about them."

"Is it true they have no bottoms?" One boy asked.

Another chimed in, "Then how to they go to the bathroom?"

"Or how do they…"

Clamping her hand firmly over the boy's mouth, Sister Magdalene said tersely," I believe we have seen all that we need. Boys! Form a line, we should just have time to visit the gift shop before our bus arrives."

The boys all groaned and protested, but did as they were told, and soon left Jack alone in the exhibit hall. Sniffing indignantly, he studied the vignette in front of him, marveling at how at one time in history, these legends of the deep were very much real.

"What is that thing?"

Will looked down in horrified curiosity at the creature thrashing around on deck in the tangled remains of their cargo net. Slick with seawater, the blue-green skin rapidly darkening under the scorching noon sun, her bare breasts heaving, it appeared to be a woman, well, except for the tail, flailing and whipping about, it's sharp spike-like scales ripping the net further apart.

"Mermaid," Jack had said briefly as he pulled his boot knife and deftly avoiding the thrashing tail, began sawing at the tangled net. "Quick, lend a hand, we have to get her back in the water before…"

"Before she eats us?" Will quipped, but as swiftly began cutting the cords entangling the sea creature. A snarling mouth full of needle sharp teeth helped dispel any romantic notions he might have had. For this mermaid was terrifying.

The creature laid still as they labored to free her from her imprisoning binds, as if she sensed they wanted to help. Or more likely, Will thought wryly to himself, just waiting for the opportune moment to attack.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Jack asked as he paused momentarily to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

Will agreed, the mermaid held a beauty all her own, despite the sharp teeth and claws. And she'd be much more beautiful once she was safely at sea. He sawed through the last entangled line and stepped back as the creature, sensing her freedom, came to life with a desperate burst of movement, skittering across the sea slick deck, crawling and clawing her way towards the terrified crew. At the last moment she paused, then in the blink of an eye was over the rail, disappearing into the warm, blue waters of the sea.

"They're quite common, you know," Jack said casually, watching a slightly darker shape as it frolicked with a school of dolphins further out in the bay.

Will squinted, catching the glimpse of a blue-green tail as it dove beneath the surface. "Mermaids? I always thought they were just old sailor's tales."

Jack grinned. "There's a lot of truth to those old yarns."

"Those yarns would have you believe mermaids were beautiful creatures, luring men to a watery grave," Will pointed out.

"Exactly!" Jack waved a hand towards the receding pod of dolphins.

"By seduction, Jack. Not by eating them."

"Well, they got the watery grave right," Jack said. "Has to count for something, eh?"


	13. Birthdays Come but Once a Year

Written by: mamazano

Title: Birthdays Come But Once A Year  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Jack/Will  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.  
Words: 566

A/N: Jack plans a very special birthday for Will. Set in the Museum AU, with references to Havana. Written for my darling dangling dingle, on the occasion of her very own special birthday coming up. Happy Birthday! (This was written in 2011, before I became ill). 

****

Coming up with new ideas for a birthday present was not an easy task, considering the past several hundred he'd already planned. But Jack was determined that Will's birthday would not pass without a celebration. Something unique and out of the ordinary, that would not only show Will how special he was to Jack, but also help Will to escape from the drudgery their current positions at the museum had become. Jack was all for sailing off in the _Pearl_ and never returning, but Will had pointed out that although the idea was extremely enticing, it was also highly impractical, seeing how they had neither crew nor funds to sail her, let alone the fact that she was still undergoing extensive restoration.

Jack sighed. What could he come up with to not only surprise Will, but please him? He thought back on some of the previous birthdays he had arranged and cringed. There always seemed to be something that backfired, no matter how impeccably Jack's planning was carried out.

Take for example the trip to Australia. The _Crocodile Hunter_ was all the rage, everyone was talking about the show, dressing in khaki and speaking with those dreadful Australian accents. Will had watched a few episodes and mentioned in passing how he'd never been to Australia, despite his world travels. Of course this immediately sent Jack off on a quest for a visit Down Under, complete with the a tour of the Outback and culminating at the Australian Zoo. All was smashing until Jack, jealous of Will's perceived glances at the young assistant, with his tight khaki shorts and tanned legs, decided that he could wrestle the crocodile as well, if not better, and ended up needing 40 stitches, despite Jack's protest it was only a scratch.

Or the time Jack had planned a hot air balloon excursion and ended up with them drifting off course, and being rescued in the middle of the Atlantic.

And then there was the time they'd traveled to New York City and on arrival been detained as suspicious, and then arrested in the American Museum of Natural History, after Jack started an argument with the tour guide over the Clash of the Titans exhibit, insisting that the Kraken was the largest marine creature in modern times. Fortunately, the Museum decided not to press charges after finding out that the two men were employed by the British Museum, choosing instead for them to perform "community service" free of charge, which amounted to spending their entire vacation dusting and repairing museum artifacts. Not quite the fun birthday Jack had envisioned for Will.

The "Havana cruise", as Jack liked to remember it, when he'd try to recapture the romance of Havana with a cruise on the _Flying Pearl_, had not ended as disastrously, despite the incessant rain that had fallen. Nor had the ride on the _Orient Express_, even though they ended up being snowed in for days. Both of these had turned out to be even more special than planned, with extra snuggling and quality time together.

Today though, Jack was once again ready for an adventure, cabin fever getting the best of him. Someplace wide open and free from the daily press of people, and buildings. Someplace under blue skies where they could breath fresh air and not answer to any schedules. Somewhere beyond the horizon.

Jack had only one problem.

Where?

****


	14. Birthdays Come but Once a Year - Part 2

Written by: mamazano

Title: Birthdays Come But Once A Year  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Jack/Will  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

A/N: Jack plans a very special birthday for Will. Set in the Museum AU, with references to Havana. Written for my darling danglingdingle, on the occasion of her very own special birthday. Happy Birthday, darling! (This was written in 2011, before I became ill). 

****

Will tried to pretend he hadn't noticed Jack's furtive behavior of the past few weeks – the whispered phone calls, the hastily stashed brochures, the sudden silences when he approached. After all, it was because of one similar situation that they'd had a gut-wrenching row, only to find out that Jack had been trying to plan a surprise getaway for the two of them. This time, with Will's birthday approaching, it was obvious that was what Jack was up to, for better or for worse.

And worse was always a distinct possibility. Jack had the amazing knack for finding the most outrageous outings he could, convinced that Will should experience everything possible in his time ashore. And, the years had provided more and more of that, to the point where Will's presence on the _Flying Dutchman_ was barely needed, AnaMaria having proved to be a most capable and fair Captain in his stead.

Yet, one could not blame Will for being a bit concerned, especially when he was overhearing snatches of conversations that included, "no deaths this year"; "equipment failure possible"; "insurance recommended".

So, when Jack bolted out the door with a peck and promise not to be late, Will's curiosity got the better of him. Making sure Jack's was gone, Will casually sauntered over to the roll top desk, an antique from their sailing days, pulled the right-side drawer open, and pressed down on the bottom to reveal the secret compartment.

Inside were stuffed a wide array of brochures, pamphlets, bits of paper with notes and numbers scribbled on them, odds and ends of various shape and size, and a lump of moldy cheese. Wrinkling his nose at the odoriferous object, Will set it aside and straightened out the wad of colored advertising in his hand.

_Eco tours of the rainforest in Belize. Cave diving in Brazil. Mountain climbing in the Himalayas. Swimming with the Great White Sharks on the Great Barrier Reef. Rappelling down a volcano in Hawaii. Dog sled racing in Alaska._

Will shook his head and smiled fondly. Ah, Jack, he thought. So many adventures. Each one different that the other, each one meant to exhilarate and amaze. And truthfully, for all the thought that went into each, all Will _really_ wanted for his birthday was Jack. Nothing more, nothing less. Jack _was_ an adventure, exhilarating and amazing just as he was.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The key sounded in the latch. Smiling, Will tucked the pamphlets back in their hidey-hole and turned to greet his lover. He'd allow Jack to plan their next adventure, and whether riding a zip line in the canopy of a rainforest, or down a steaming volcano, his life-line would always be tied to one man.

He _would_ have to draw the line though at swimming with the sharks.

****


	15. Birthday Surprises

Written by: mamazano

Title: Surprises  
Rating: M  
Characters: Jack/Will, and other surprises  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

A/N: Jack is having trouble planing a very special birthday for Will. Set in the Unwritten History AU, with references to Havana Revisited and Key West.

**Surprises**

Jack Sparrow walked, deep in thought, down the sun-drenched lane, lined with pastel-painted bungalows, colorful, tropical flowers spilling over white picket fences, palms fronds rustling in the warm sea breeze. He noticed none of this, though, his mind miles away, his usually expressive hands thrust deep into his pockets. He could easily have been mistaken for a tourist, fresh off a cruise ship, with his baggy, white cotton slacks, colorful flowered shirt and Panama hat, complete with the sauntering gait of a sailor, regaining his land legs.

But that was the bloody trouble, now wasn't it? Jack wasn't a tourist, out to experience some of the "local color" of Key West, as the cruise directors so cleverly called it, before guiding their ducklings back to their resorts and spas, their banquets and buffets. After all, there was only so much local color to soak in, so many trinkets and souvenirs to buy, before they were whisked off to their next destination. The locals tolerated them, mostly for the dollars they spent, and once gone, the town would once again settle back into its sleepy existence.

One of the more "colorful" local establishments was the _Black Pearl_ tavern, a favorite of the locals, and a "must see" on all the tourist brochures. Located on the gun deck of an actual pirate ship (a replicate, no doubt, as wooden ships of this era could never have possibly survived this long, now could they?), the bar specialized in rum, serving only the best, either straight up, or mixed with _Coca-Cola_ and lime or just a splash of water. Grog. Authentic. There were also wooden kegs of beer, supplied from a local craftsman, for those that preferred a less potent potable.

The _Black Pearl_ tavern didn't serve anything else. Especially none of those so-called "boat drinks", those bloody dreadful concoctions with the fruit garnishes and tiny umbrellas. There were also no "tours" of the ship, the remainder of which was off limits to anyone but the closest friends of the owner. A double disappointment to the tourists, who generally only stopped by for a look 'round and photo or two, before heading to _Sloppy Joe's_, another "must see" on their list. Which was fine with the owner and the locals, the dimly lit tavern a safe haven from the sprawl of commercialism that had consumed the island.

At least one, if not _the_ biggest attractions of the tavern, and what brought the locals back time and again, was the crusty old seaman who tended the bar. His tales of pirates and knowledge of history, along with his mutton chops and tattered, ancient British Navy garb, made him not only a local legend but a favorite among the regulars. Well, him _and_ his two barmaids – one blonde, one redhead, both beautiful in their period gowns, ready to serve with a smile, and a bit of cleavage. They were _not_ available for extra-curricular activity, but no one seemed to mind. Their attractive presence and attentiveness was enough, not to mention their easy-going demeanor.

The owner of the tavern, and captain of the ship, was the same Jack Sparrow, who was making his way from his own bungalow towards the harbor, where the _Pearl_ was anchored. It was only a few days away from his lover's birthday, and Jack was at a complete loss as to what he could do to make the day special. And special it had to be, seeing how Jack hadn't seen Captain Will Turner in almost six months. Six months of loneliness, and sleepless nights and too much rum.

It was not unusual for short separations, as Will was always "on call" whenever a major sea disaster struck. As captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, it was Will's duty to see that all went smoothly as the crew of the _Dutchman_ ferried those lost at sea to the other side. But a combination of a busy hurricane season, and several ferry mishaps, not to mention the cruise ship disaster, had kept Captain Turner away much, much longer than an impatient, lonely, not to mention horny Captain Sparrow could stand. Patience was never Jack's strong suit, and these months had tried it almost to the breaking point.

In other times such as these, there would be no problem. Jack would take the_ Flying Pearl_, a smaller sailing vessel that he and Will escaped the world in, whenever possible, and sail to where Will was currently located, spending time with him and relieving the constant ache Jack felt whenever they were apart. It wasn't about the sex, although in that department there was nothing but total ecstasy. No, it was the bond of love, endless, eternal that they had for one another.

Unfortunately, the _Flying Pearl_ was currently dry docked for maintenance, and Will was somewhere in the Indian Ocean, and Jack was alone. And miserable. Calypso, Tia Dallam, sea witch extraordinaire, had promised Will would be back before his birthday. But then, she was, in her own words, "harsh, and cruel, and untamable as the sea…", not to mention fickle and famous for whims of fancy, which Jack had still yet to ever fancy. She claimed it was to remind him of who really was in charge, but Jack just chalked it up to her liking to torment him.

Like bringing back that bastard Barbossa. What the fuck was that all about? Jack had lost his beloved _Pearl_ to that blaggard, and then finally was able to shut his intolerable, bragging mouth with the bullet Jack had saved for ten long years. Only to find out that Tia Dalma had had the audacity to revive the black-hearted maggot to serve her own selfish purposes.

Well, Jack had had the last laugh, or so he had thought, when Joshamee Gibbs, best quartermaster a man could ever have, had stolen back the _Pearl_, abet a very small _Pearl,_ in a bottle no less, but still Jack's beloved _Pearl,_ and between them, were able to find a obeah that could break the spell and return the ship to her former glory. And size. But the Golden Days of Piracy were coming to an end, and Jack eventually lost track of Gibbs, who gave up the sea for the life of a tavern keeper in Tortuga.

Until, one day…

It had been about two months after Jack had last seen Will. Down in the dumps, lonely, BORED (as if the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow could ever be something so mundane as bored), Jack had wandered over to _Sloppy Joe's,_ where the annual Hemingway look-alike contest was being held. Not a big fan of the "new" _Sloppy Joe's_ (Jack having too many memories of the original bar in Havana, some of them not so pleasant), he nonetheless decided to play the local tourist and see what all the hullaballoo was about. Besides, he needed a stiff drink and _Joe's_ did serve some of the best rum on the island.

There were tourists crawling all over the place, and it seemed every other one of them spouted a white beard and hat, hopeful to be this year's winner in the contest. Jack could have cared less about the contest, or Hemingway for that matter, having known the bastard while he was still alive. Not much to like there, but there is no accounting for fame or who becomes famous, even if they were a total ass in life. No, Jack had actually wandered over to hear the story-telling, a new addition to the week long celebration.

It was the voice that first drew Jack's attention. He'd known that voice anywhere, but it couldn't be. Could it? Jack had pushed his way through the crowd to where he could get a better look at the Hemingway wannabe, spinning an old sea tale as only one person could possibly do. At the climax of the story, of a motley group of pirates who won a battle against the entire British armada, the man had looked up, piercing blue eyes meeting Jack's deep brown, and winked.

A few hours, and a bottle of rum later, Jack had found out the truth of if all, bloody improbable as it were. It seemed that when Jack had trekked into the swamps to find the famous Fount of Ponce de Leon, he'd taken his quartermaster's leather flask with him. The rum gone, along with Blackbeard (Teach, the mutinous minion who had stolen the _Pearl_ from that other mutinous bastard, Barbossa, who had purloined the _Pearl_ from Jack because of same said quartermaster Jack was now drinking rum with), and while Angelica (now THAT was the biggest misnomer Jack had ever heard of) was sobbing over her despicable, and now deceased father, Jack, always one to hedge his bets, had slipped down to the waters and filled the flask.

Taking one, perhaps two, good swigs from the flask, Jack had then taken care of some unfinished business, and with his now in good graces quartermaster, Gibbs, had headed to Tortuga, with the _Pearl_ (and quite a few other ships) in a bottle, to search for a way to restore his ship to her original size and glory. Once in Tortuga, Jack had parted ways with Gibbs at the entrance to the _Reluctant Bride_, with the promise that Gibbs would stash the bottles of ships in a safe location. All but one. Jack had kept the _Pearl_, not willing to let her out his sight again.

And what safer location than the _Painted Lady_, Pierre's boutique and dress shop? So, while Gibbs had made his way there (looking forward to seeing his favorite former ladies of the night), Jack had sat in the back of the _Bride_, drinking rum and studying the tiny _Pearl_. There seemed to be some sort of bug up in the rigging. Jack had drunkenly squinted in the dim light, only to be dismayed to find it was no bug at all, but that cursed nemesis of his, that bastard Barbossa's monkey. Rum gone and bottle of _Pearl_ in hand, Jack had decided to go find Gibbs. Perhaps they could coax the pestilent pest out of one bottle and into another. Worth a try.

In the meantime, Gibbs had regaled the girls (and Pierre, as well), with accounts of narrow escapes from the gallows, infamous pirates, voodoo, and of course the reason why he was carting around a burlap sack full of miniature ships in bottles. The chorus of "oohs" and "oh no's" and "_Mon Dieu_", not to mention the liberal libations from Pierre's private cellar, loosened Gibb's tongue a touch too much, and for his "_coup de grâce_" , he had produced his leather flask, lowered his voice to a ominous whisper, and told his captive audience that he held the _aqua vitae_, the Water of Life.

Pierre had promptly produced four crystal glasses, and suggested a toast to celebrate the most brave victories of Joshamee Gibbs and _Capitaine _Sparrow (unfortunately not present, or available. _C'est la vie_. Pierre could always hope). Gibbs had hesitated for a moment, but after all, if the stories were true, a special ceremony was required, not a simple toast between friends. So the water was poured, with all the pomp it deserved, and each of them had raised their glass and toasted to eternal friendship.

Hence, fast-forwarding over three hundred years, Jack had found the said same Joshamee Gibbs, that bright, sunny day, along with his delightful companions (well, the jury was still out on Pierre being delightful, as far as Jack was concerned). Here, in the flesh, in Key West, Florida. Giselle and Scarlet had rushed to hug Jack, arguing as usual over who would get to go first, and Gibb's jaw had dropped, and for the first time since Jack had known him, was actually speechless. Pierre? Well he had been too busy trying to impress a handsome, young waiter that Jack knew from his occasional visits to _Joe's_. For a brief moment, Jack had pouted. Not that he wanted Pierre fawning over him, thank the gods for that. It was just that Jack had sort of enjoyed the attention in a weird way. It had been a great ego-booster, and Jack's ego did like to be preened.

So, between the sheepish explanation from Gibbs, the bazillion questions, and confusion, (which would be another whole story, now wouldn't it?), a very big part of Jack had begun to ache. If only Will could be here, beside him, where he belonged. Not off in some foreign place, at Calypso's beck and call. Here, witnessing this bizarre, and wholly unexpected revelation, the consequences long-reaching, but at the same time, amazing in the feeling of being surrounded by those people who knew him best. Knew Captain Jack Sparrow. Had sailed with him. Had been there to share the battles and booty and… friendship.

Damn it, Calypso!

"You called?" A sultry voice had purred in Jack's ear, a dark-skinned hand slithering down his arm. Gaining control of the tingling of trepidation down his spine, Jack had turned with his most charming smile. "Tia Dalma!" Gibbs turned a sheepish-white, and hadn't waited to see what happened next, just rounded up his group and headed for the bar. Tia had fluttered a dismissive hand at them, before turning her attention back to Jack.

"Jack," she'd purred again, "What is it in dis world that you want de most?" Jack had been tempted to say for her to go away, but knowing her way of turning vindictive on a whim, smiled his most engaging smile he could muster under the circumstances. "You know exactly WHO it is," Jack had said, as he'd surreptitiously nudged her hand from his arm.

"Den you wouldn't mind if I were to take your precious _Pearl_? Hmmm?" She had turned and sashayed away, heading for the berth where the _Pearl_ was anchored. Jack eyes had widened, and he'd hurried after her, stepping in front of her to stop any further action, as he'd gestured frantically with his hands.

"You can't, I mean, you wouldn't, would you?" Jack's pleas had fallen on deaf ears as she'd pushed him aside and continued through the crowd that had gathered around _Sloppy Joe's_. The judging for the Hemingway contest was getting ready to start, a perfect time for a sea witch to commandeer his ship.

"Why would you be wanting the _Pearl_ anyways? It's not as if you need a ship. You already have one. And her captain, if I might remind you." Jack's brain had scrambled wildly to figure out what she was up to. The _Pearl_ was not even sailable at that time, thanks in part to the British Museum yanking the funding for her restoration, when Jack had refused to make his _Pearl_ a traveling museum. She was a ship, after all, not a bloody sideshow.

"Another captain has requested her. One I owe a favor to." Tia's voice had become cold, and a brisk breeze began to blow off the Gulf. "One who cut off his own leg for her."

Barbossa. Jack's heart sank. It seemed that wooden leg of his had held something else besides rum. Why would Barbossa, if it _were_ him Tia was referring to, want the _Pearl_? What did he plan on doing with her, attack cruise ships?

"Couldn't you just give him another ship?" Jack had asked. "I have lots of ships, he could take his pick." Jack grinned as convincingly as he could through clenched teeth. "They're a bit small at the moment, but I'm sure you could just do that mumbo jumbo thing you do…"

"Hush!" Tia waved her hand and the wind had picked up to a fevered pitch, causing Jack to grab his hat, before dying back down to a whisper. "He has asked for de _Pearl_," she said, her tone indicated there would be no further argument. Jack wasn't one to give up though, and he smiled brightly.

"Well, it doesn't have to be the real _Pearl_, does it?" Jack had concocted an idea and was willing to bargain, even though he knew the dangers of it. "You could give him another ship, a better ship!" Jack's mind raced. "What do you say, eh? Deal?"

"And what do I get in return, hmmm?" Tia had crossed her arms. "Dis bargain will come with a price."

Jack had spread his arm and smiled widely. "Name your price."

Tia Dalma had smiled back, her black teeth reflecting her black heart. "Six months at sea, with no contact, for Captain Turner."

And before a crest-fallen Jack could reply, she had disappeared in a sudden downpour, the raindrops mingling with the tears creasing down his face.

That had been four months ago, but Jack remembered it as if it were yesterday. He'd gone to work on the _Pearl_, turning his beloved ship into a tethered drinking establishment. Mostly, to keep Barbossa from stealing her again. On sleepless nights (and there had been too, too many of them), Jack would lay on the deck of his ship, listening to the creaking of the rigging, remembering the times when he would sail for that distance horizon, the _Pearl_ dancing lightly beneath his hands, her sails snapping in the brisk breeze. She still got restless at times, tossing herself about, straining at her moorings, longing as her captain did for the open seas. Mostly, though, she sat content, and allowed Jack to soothe her with his words and hands, knowing too well the hard-handed feel of Barbossa at her wheel.

Jack had recruited Gibbs and the girls and opened the tavern, a success from the beginning, and a way for all of them to remain together, still amazed at the coincidence of their reunion. Gibbs, by the way, never did win the Hemingway contest, though he'd won numerous times at story-telling. Pierre, well he fell in love – with every new, fresh, handsome man he met – and Key West as a whole. He'd opened a new boutique, not far from the harbor, specializing in artisan dresses and shirts, which the tourists gobbled up.

And Jack? He waited. Paced his cabin on the _Pearl_, studying ancient charts of seas long tamed, and dreamt of the days of old. When a pirate could be free to sail uncharted waters, adventures awaiting every hour. The thrill of "Sail ahoy" hollered from the crow's nest, the bustle of the crew readying for battle, the smell of gun powder and the cannons' roars.

But mostly, Jack missed the nights. Nights filled with romance, with hot lips and warm bodies entwined, so tightly as to become one. Pleasures and passion and desperate needs. Mornings, with the sun breaking through the multi-paned windows of the _Pearl_, the soft breath of his lover on his neck, their limbs still wrapped around each other as if never to part. Never. Ever. Forever.

Jack was cracking, his loss almost too much to bear. Will's birthday was just a few days away, and all Jack had to offer him was a ship that no longer sailed and the shock of finding there were others from the past still living in this century. How could he translate this into what he wanted most, to just have Will all to himself. Jack had to come up with a plan. Somehow, somewhere, he needed time alone with Will before springing the other "surprises" on him.

He would. That was definite. All he needed now was inspiration. And a bit of planning.

They say inspiration can strike at the craziest times, and by the simplest things. Jack's came from a chance conversation he'd overheard at the local grocery store. Produce section, to be exact. Two well-dressed, bleached-blonde women, (overly made-up and obviously nipped and tucked a few too many times), were discussing their last vacations and how lame Key West was in comparison. Jack was about to interject with a few choice words on how the island would be bloody better off without them and their kind, when one of them had mentioned her favorite vacation ever.

An island, that you could charter, complete with vacation home, stocked with everything you'd ever need, as well as a yacht, at your disposal. The only way to reach the island was by boat or aquaplane, and it was as beautiful as it was secluded. Jack lingered over the mangoes and limes long enough to get the name of the company that handled the property, before leaving with two limes and a pleasant "Good day!" to the women, who'd only looked down their tanning-bed noses at him as if he were just another one of those crazy locals.

Perfect! An inaccessible island, a boat to fetch Will with, and time alone, all the time they wanted, with no interruptions. Jack had let out a whooping yell as he walked out of the store, startling the tourist mingling around and giving more credence to the oddities that populated Key West. The company was not hard to locate, being just off Duval Street. Jack had practically walked on air as he entered the door with a jingle from the bell hanging above. The room was decked out with posters of tropical paradise destinations, fake palms and synthetic wicker furniture. A bored receptionist had looked up from her computer to point at the cardboard clock hanging on the door.

"We're closed," she had said, before going back to her lunch, a power bar and arugula salad. Jack tried smiling his most charming smile, but she would not budge, just told him to bugger off (well, not exacting her words but the meaning was clear enough) and come back at 1:30 pm. So Jack had amused himself with reading the many colorful brochures that were on the rack by the door, paced impatiently, hummed to himself, and was otherwise annoying as he could be until finally, several eye rolls and sighs later, she'd asked him just what it was he wanted.

He had explained the island and how he'd like to book a reservation. She'd unenthusiastically but dutifully looked through her listings on her computer and told him with a self-satisfying smirk, that the island was booked through 2014, so he might as well take himself elsewhere. Anywhere. As long as it was out of her office. Bloody cheeky of her, Jack had grumbled, and made a mental note to complain to the management. So, defeated once again on ideas, Jack had headed for the _Pearl_, and after several (well, more than several) shots of rum, trudged back to his cottage, chin on chest, and heart full of woe.

He'd entered the front door, which he always left unlocked, as there was nothing to steal that he couldn't replace. Jack had only made it several steps inside when he'd noticed the sound of running water. The shower, to be more precise. At first he was puzzled as to why someone would be taking a shower in his house. Then he had surreptitiously glanced around to make sure he was actually _in_ his house (he'd had a bit more rum on the way).

It was then that he had noticed the boots, followed by the coat, and shirt. Following the trail, his heart racing in hopeful disbelief, he'd next found the pants and finally, at the bathroom door, a pair of socks and boxers. Jack, heart still pounding, began to strip off his clothes as fast as he could and opened the door. Steam wafted out, and beyond the shower curtain was the outline of a man, one Jack knew every intimate inch of. He'd slipped into the shower and wrapped his arms around the man from behind, who was busy rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

"Took you long enough," a muffled voice had said, before the embrace became a frenzy of hugging and kissing and sobs of joy (mostly from Jack, who never could contain his emotions when it came to Will). Between the "how's" and the "when's", they made love, Jack entering Will as if to make them one, forever, both desperately needing the feel of each other, two souls reunited once more. Neither of them had noticed when the water ran cold, continuing from the shower to the bed, not stopping to even dry each other.

It was twilight before, spent and sated and safely in each other's arms, Jack had remembered that he'd never prepared Will's coming home surprise. Mumbling his apologies, somewhere in the vicinity of Will's armpit, Jack had told Will of how he'd tried to plan the perfect birthday celebration for his return.

"You did," Will had told Jack. "YOU are the perfect celebration. YOU are the perfect present. And all I want, ever want. Forever."

And as they both knew, forever is a very, very long time.


End file.
